Running with the Devil

[Editor’s Note: this is gonna be a long one. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.]

Earlier this week, Amy and I were in Pamplona, Spain for three days of the San Fermin festival. Most people know this festival better for the “Running of the Bulls,” and if I’m honest, that’s really why we went. I’ve wanted to run with the bulls since my early 20’s, back when my brother and I talked about going together. Of course, this is the kind of talk brothers have in their 20’s, but we just got tattoos, and then got jobs, and eventually got married, and so it goes. But with this trip Amy and I are on, I finally got the chance, and I took it.

Here’s a little of what I can tell you from my limited knowledge of the San Fermin festival: San Fermin (or Saint Fermin) was an early Christian martyr who’s the patron saint of the Navarra province of Spain, where Pamplona is the capital. Fermin was the first bishop of the region, but then he went to France and got his head chopped off, and now they have a big party to celebrate his life. It goes on for a week or so every year, and Ernest Hemingway made it famous in “The Sun Also Rises,” so now the streets of Pamplona are filled with all nationalities of all ages, many of whom are drinking beer and sangria from dusk ‘til dawn and throughout the night. It’s like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but if every street was Bourbon Street, and instead of beads, you have to wear a white outfit with a red sash and a red handkerchief around your neck. Sure, it looks a bit ridiculous, but it’s a tradition, and everyone does it, and it isn’t Labor Day yet, so what’s the harm in wearing white and looking like Liza Minelli?

The obvious highlight is the running of the bulls, and I can provide you with a little backstory on that as well. It’s another tradition that’s well over a hundred years old, and what basically happens is they take six bulls from a pen in one part of the old town over to the bullring in the other part of town, so they can take part in the bullfight later that night. At some point very early on some wiseacre decided it would be fun to run with the bulls, and then the next year more guys joined in, and 100 years later it’s mayhem in the streets of Pamplona. There is a religious aspect to it as well, because in celebrating the life of San Fermin, there is the experience of facing death as a celebration of living a full life. One guy gets his head chopped off in France, others run through the streets of Pamplona being chased by a half-dozen pissed-off death-row cows.

Amy and I arrived just after the opening ceremonies of Day One. There are no bull runs that day, just a lot of pageantry and singing, and eventually the streets clog up with drunken teenagers, drunken adults, and drunken elderly people. There are no rules. People drink everywhere, pee everywhere (even the ladies), vomit everywhere, and spray sangria all over their brand new white clothes. It’s bacchanalia at its finest, and we enjoyed it for several hours while we scouted the course of the bull-run, but eventually we’d had enough of the crowds and we headed back to our hotel.

A note about our hotel: we were a little late in booking a room for the festival, so we couldn’t find anything nearby at a reasonable price. So we stayed about 45 minutes outside of Pamplona in a rural village called Riezu. Our hotel was a 16th century palacio, the former home of the village’s medieval lord. Our room had massive wooden beams that were basically rough-hewn trees, and huge stone masonry. It was a bit dark and cold, but it was pretty fantastic, and our host Stef was a great guy. The only issue was that it was 45 minutes from all the action.

So the next day, we had to wake up early – very early, at 4:30am – to see the first running. We had to put on some clothes, drive to Pamplona, and then meet a tour guide at 6:15 to collect some tickets before the 8:00am running. We’d read that the best place to watch a run was from a balcony, and Amy, ever-the-planner, arranged for us to get balcony spots and tickets for the bullfight later that night. By 6:45 we were in someone’s home, on a balcony overlooking Calle Santo Domingo, ready for the run to start. It was like a carnival atmosphere – a band playing right in front of us, and people with kids walking the course, some already drinking wine.

A loudspeaker recited the rules in Spanish and English: no drunks, nobody under 18, no backpacks or cameras, don’t interfere with the bulls (in fact, you’re not supposed to touch the bulls – while some people do touch them, people get fined). By 7:30 the cops were locking up the streets, tossing drunks and other rule-breakers, and clearing out the families. By 7:45, it was just nervous runners on the streets. And at 8:00am, the main event began.

The Running of the Bulls takes less than three-minutes. Six bulls (normally black in color) will be guided by a group of castrated steers (slightly bigger and brown & white) through the old town to the bullring (see map below). A rocket goes off, signaling the start for runners who may be several blocks away, and the bulls are let loose from a paddock just outside the old town. They take a slight turn, and at this point they meet the runners (a second rocket indicating this moment) and head up a cobblestone straightaway called Calle Santo Domingo. Then they reach a small square in front of the City Hall, and take a wide left turn, and then head straight for a few more blocks on Mercaderes. Then comes “Dead Man’s Corner,” a sharp right turn where many of the bulls lose their footing on the cobblestones and slam into a wall, often taking out a number of runners with them. From here on it’s the lengthy homestretch, down the cobbled Calle Estafeta, and they eventually reach the chute and gateway that takes them into the Plaza de Toros (another rocket blast), the bullring where everything finishes, where the bulls run into another paddock, and await their time in the spotlight in the bullfight that night. Once the last bull has entered the ring, a fourth and final rocket goes off, indicating it’s all over.

At 8:00am, the first rocket went off, the crowd went crazy, and the runners started running. A mob started running up the street from our left, and here’s what we saw:

They were past us in the blink of an eye, and I ran off the balcony to another room with a TV. They broadcast the runs live in Navarra, and I watched for the next minute or so. Then a noise came from outside on the street – two more steers had been let loose a few minutes later!! They came roaring past, and up Santo Domingo, away towards the bullring. I believe they do this in case any bulls are still loose or lost for any reason – the steers know the way and will guide the bulls in if there’s any problem. (This happened two days after we ran – a bull got separated from the others in the crowd, and actually turned around, heading back into the crowds).

It was thrilling to see, and great research for our run the next day. We watched a bunch of replays, and then left the balcony, and headed on to the streets for some food and drink. The town was buzzing with excitement, and we spent several hours walking around and taking in the sights, and eating delicious tapas (or as they call them in the Basque region, “pintxos”) at the bars. But with our early morning, and a bullfight later that night, we drove back to the hotel for an afternoon nap and shower.

I also spent part of the afternoon doing research, trying to figure out the best way to run. We’d gotten some advice from friends who’d done it before – thanks Erik, Caroline, and Lee – and the internet was a great resource. There’s even a fantastic website, sanfermin.com, where they break down all the bulls, and have stats about that day’s gorings, and injuries, and the bull’s weights and backgrounds. It’s hilarious. I’m trying to figure out a way to set up a fantasy bull running league.

The next day was the big day. We got up early again, put on our white clothes, and drove to Pamplona. After the online research the afternoon before, we discussed how we’d go about it. Your goal as a runner is to a) run with the bulls, and b) get to the bullring at the Plaza de Toros, basically crossing the finish line, and celebrate there with the crowd in the stands and the other runners. If you get to the bullring before the bulls, the audience in the Plaza will boo you. But if you start too far back on Santo Domingo, near the beginning, it’s doubtful you’ll make the Plaza de Toros. You’ve got to run nearly a kilometer in three minutes. So there’s a lot of strategy involved.

We decided we would start on Santo Domingo, right under the balcony we watched from the day before. We were familiar with that stretch of road, we knew how the bulls ran down that street, and we knew where you could get in and out of the barriers. It seemed like a natural choice, even if chances of making the arena were slim. With a little over an hour to go, we were in the street and waiting for 8:00am to come around, chatting with the occasional stranger, and constantly asking people, “Que hora es?” It seemed like an eternity, and I felt jittery and nervous. We both had to leave a few times to take a pee.

If you know Amy, you know she’s constantly meeting people and striking up conversations. I don’t know how she attracts them, but it happens all the time. She was an NBC page (just like Kenneth on “30 Rock”), and she’s got the solicitous kind of face that seems to say, “Can I help you?!” Well, sure enough, a woman wearing a press credential, with a huge camera hanging from her neck, came up and asked Amy, “May I interview you?” She was from the local newspaper, the Diario de Navarra, and she was doing a story on women who run with the bulls. Amy answered her questions, and agreed to meet up with her after the running to tell her how it went. She asked me a couple of questions, too, and here’s the big difference – Amy was smiley and polite; but my nerves were so jangled, and I was so preoccupied, I looked like a total schmuck. I could barely spit out an answer or work up a decent smile for the camera.

Amy and I agreed that after the race we would meet back by where we started for her post-game interview. We picked a spot, knowing we might get separated, and waited the last few minutes for the race to start. I could barely stay in my skin. I was a bit shaky and full of nervous energy. The last few minutes went by quickly, and then – BOOM. The first rocket. The bulls were out of the pen.

It all went by in the blink of an eye. The minute the rocket went off, the noise became intense, and a wave of runners started heading towards us in anticipation of the bulls, which would only be seconds behind. I immediately got separated from Amy.

Amy told me what happened to her – she saw the wave of runners, got close to a wall, and watched the bulls run by. The bulls passed, the wave of runners dissipated, and it was over that fast. She started to look for me. Here’s a picture of Amy during the run (a bit out of focus because we had to blow it up from the original):

Things were much different for me. Remember all that research I spoke about earlier? I read that the best approach was to make an “arc” – stay on the sides, and as the bulls get close, swing out into the street with the bulls, run for a while, and then drop back off to the side of the street and avoid getting trampled. That was my strategy. When that wave of runners started to approach, I ran like hell ahead of them up Santo Domingo, trying to make some space. The bulls would get to me soon enough – it was the runners I was worried about. There’s only about 12 bulls (with the steers), but there’s thousands of people, and I was more concerned about avoiding them than avoiding the bulls. Sure enough, the bulls were nearby – you could hear the stampede of hooves on the cobblestones, and the constant ringing of the cowbells, not to mention the roar of the crowd, and, oddly enough, the heavy breathing of yourself and the guys running next to you.

As we approached the City Hall square, I was ready to make my arcing move in, looking over my shoulder as the bulls got close. And then…cleanup on Aisle 9! Someone about five yards ahead of me tripped, and there was a massive pileup of bodies, about ten people deep. I ran right into it, and all progress stopped. The bulls thundered by. I didn’t even get close. So much for the arc. Here’s a photo of my run, taken about two seconds before the pile up.

I was quickly able to get around the pile of runners, but by then it was too late. The bulls were a good ten yards ahead of me, and I could barely see them as they thundered off, surrounded by throngs of runners. But I kept running. I don’t know why. There was no chance I would catch them, and the bullring was another 700 meters away. But I kept running. I guess it was all the excitement, and the energy, and the fact that a thousand other runners just kept running as well. And when the hell would I ever run with the bulls again? And I thought to myself, “Can I actually make it to the bullring before they close the gates?”

Within 30 seconds I was at “Dead Man’s Corner,” and as I took the turn with hundreds of other people, I started seeing people putting their hands up, basically telling the crowd, “slow down, it’s over, don’t get hurt.” Which was sensible, considering the bulls were gone by this point, and with all the running mob, people were still falling and tripping on the cobblestones and getting trampled. Things slowed down to a jog, more like running a 10k than sprinting with angry farm animals.

Let me tell you a bit about my fitness level. It ain’t great. I’ve never been the type that works out a lot, and while I do like to swim, there haven’t been a lot of visits to the YMCA on this trip. And while I might have been more slender in Asia, all the beef in Argentina, the beer at the World Cup, and the jamon and red wine in Spain has got me feeling a little…bloated. I may have been at my bantam wrestling weight in Asia, but I’m approaching my sumo wrestling weight here in Spain. I was huffing and puffing like a madman, and the cobblestones were doing a number on my knees. But I was so full of adrenaline, I could have run through a wall.

As I kept jogging down Estafeta, I noticed a bunch of runners who kept looking back over their shoulders, and I was wondering what for – was there a lost bull out there somewhere? And then I remembered: the two steers they send out later for cleanup duty. We hadn’t seen them yet. And if we hadn’t seen them, then the gate to the bullring wasn’t closed yet. I picked up my pace, determined to make the bullring. A minute or so later, and I saw the approach. I was going to make it.

As I headed down the tunnel towards the ring, a loud cry went up in the air, and everyone started sprinting again, like the same noise and commotion, and the same wave of runners at the beginning. Clearly the two steers were approaching. I ran like hell down the tunnel, heading towards the ring, and cleared the gate that leads into the arena – the same gate that would be closed seconds later. It was really crowded in the tunnel, and if the steers were anywhere close, it would be a tight fit. Seconds later I made it out of the tunnel and into the ring itself, where I jumped out of the way to the left, and saw the two steers run by me. I had made the ring, uninjured.

I was euphoric. There was so much energy and adrenaline in my system, I took off my hat and waved it around, and yelled aloud to no one in particular. I was there with a thousand other runners, but alone in my glory. I smiled and looked around at the cheering crowd in the stands. It felt awesome. I caught my breath, and felt my legs tremble. My lungs were burning. But I was still full of nervous energy, and I kept wishing my brother were there to have done it with me.

They started to replay video of the running on the jumbotron. Who knew the bullring had a jumbotron? But sure enough, they started to show the running, and all the runners turned to watch. But we never finished watching.

About two minutes in, a massive noise went up in the stands, and runners in the ring started to surge in one direction. And I heard someone say (in English), “it’s the young bull!!” I had read about this. Once the run is over, they send a young bull out into the crowd of runners. The young bull is much smaller, and his horns are blunted so he can’t really do any damage (in fact, I was later told that it’s not a young bull at all, but a female!). But she’s damn feisty, and angry, and goes after anything that moves. Some folks would try to touch her to prove their bravery, and all kinds of guys were constantly getting trampled, or head-butted, or kicked by the young bull. The crowd loved it. Anytime the bull trampled someone, they went wild. And if someone was toying with the young bull too much, like pulling their tail, they’d boo.

At one point the crowd started to move in my direction, and like the parting of the Red Sea, everyone in front of me started moving out of the way. The young bull was headed our way, and as fortune would have it, they cleared a path with the bull heading right at me. I started to run backwards with everyone, and now there was an open circle around the bull as he kept heading in my direction. And then I tripped, falling directly on my ass. There I was, out in the open of the undulating circle of people, with the young bull bearing down on me. The crowd sensed my imminent trampling, and you heard a collective gasp. I was frozen. All I could think of was me telling the doctor, “No, it wasn’t one of the big bulls, it was only a couple hundred pounds…” But within three feet of me, she changed direction and started going after some other jackass. Bulls go after the motion. My chicken-shit freezing had paid off.

At this point I figured I had had enough, and should probably get back to Amy, who was likely nervous and dreaming up scenarios in which I had a bull’s horn stuck in my lungs. So I left the bullring with a bunch of other runners and started to head back to our meeting point. She wouldn’t know I made it all the way to the bullring, and I knew she would be waiting and worried about my delay. And sure enough, a few minutes later I saw her looking for me on the streets, well away from the meeting point, and relieved to see me in one piece.

We did meet up with the reporter from Diario de Navarra, and the next day, Amy was featured in an online story about women who run. You can read the story here, and see us in the video, at the beginning and the very end. And once again, I was so full of adrenaline and nervous and fidgety… Amy comes off happy and smiley, I come off like a dolt.

http://www.diariodenavarra.es/noticias/san_fermin/san_fermin_2014/2014/07/09/las_mujeres_aunque_pocas_tambien_corren_encierro_166771_2941.html

(You can cut and paste the body of the article into Google Translate and it does a pretty good job.)

And lastly, here’s the video of that day’s running (with stats!). At about :35 seconds (on the graphic clock) is where the bulls run by Amy. You won’t be able to see her. At :40-:41 seconds, if you watch a few times over, and very closely, you might catch me on the right wearing my Yankees hat. And a second later, at :42, on the right, you can see the pileup of bodies I got caught in.

(http://www.sanfermin.com/index.php/en/encierro/encierros_2014/8-julio)

So, to answer your question: would I do it again? Absolutely. In the blink of an eye.